


you, me, some rhubarb pie

by royalwisteria



Series: in all the universes, it will be you [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke's just a farmer on her way to the market when she finds the lost Blake siblings, who are clearly not from around here.</p><p>*decided to flesh this out, will be updated sporadically</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's early August and the sun is unbearably hot; it bodes bad things for her vegetable garden this year, much less the far more important corn crop. Last year the crop was good because she had gotten them in early so she had gotten the early summer rainfall, which had saved them through mid-summer when there was little to no rain. This year, though, has been decently rainy, but the heat unbearable. Clarke has just given up on understanding weather, even though it's part of her job _to_ understand it. She tends to leave that to her mom most of the time, and her mom leaves checking the crops, watering them, making sure the machines work all to her. It's been their system ever since her dad died some years ago.

She shades her eyes with her hand as she stares over the waving corn from the vantage point of their house on the hill. It's taller than her now, which is most certainly a good sign as harvest season is coming up. There's not much else she can do right now, but wait for it to come and for her mom to tell her when to water the crops. Her vegetable plot, on the other hand, is a disaster; she sighs as she turns to look at it. Her wiring went up late and rabbits got to the lettuce and then just last week some animal snuck through and made short work of the beans. Her mom's not going to be happy, but at least they'd had fresh zucchini, peppers, cucumber and more up until now. And then there's her autumn plot, where her pumpkin plant is sprawled all over the edges, and her broccoli seems to be doing okay, but Clarke is most excited for the vine of grapes. They've had the plant for a few years now, and Clarke has spotted the fruit growing just the other day. It'll take a while to reach full fruition and this is the most excited Clarke has been about plants in a long, long time. She wasn't even that excited about agriculture when she went to school for the goddamn industry, but this-- this is exciting. She's also started planning an orchard, with apples and pears and peaches and it'll be absolutely wonderful. Not to mention, the extra income at farmer's markets will be nice. The Griffin farm has a reputation of good quality and Clarke wants to add to that, to further the tradition; it's why she studied agro after all.

"Mom," she calls, going inside and slamming the door shut as quick as she can. The house is cool and she can hear the a/c running in the distance; it's also dry, like the air outside.

"Yeah?" She hears her mom reply and, as expected, she's in the office.

"I'm running to the market, can I get you anything?"

Her mom hums, glasses low on her nose as she rifles through papers. "I think we're low on milk, can you check?"

"I bought some the other day, so we shouldn't be. Anything else?"

Sighing, Abby pushes her glasses up her nose and stretches backwards, arms high above her head. "Not that I can think of. What're we doing for dinner tonight?"

Clarke shrugs and leans against the door frame. "We have a ton of zucchini still." Abby makes a face and Clarke laughs. "I'll get something at the store," she promises, "be back soon."

"Drive safe," Abby calls after her, though Clarke knows that she's already once again absorbed in her work. Clarke swipes the keys from the clay pot she made when seven and her wallet sitting on the kitchen counter as she heads to the garage. They only have one car now, an SUV from Clarke's childhood. She wants to sell it to get a car with better storage and much better mileage, but they need money first. They could get a loan, but they already have a few out and it's just untenable right now. The SUV, blue and dusty, starts with a familiar rumble and she eases out of the garage and out the driveway on her way out.

She parks in the only parking lot and walks to the market; she waves a hello to Monty and Jasper in the electronics store as she passes it and they wave eagerly back. It's not the smallest town in Iowa, but it's small enough that Clarke knows most of the people around here. She grew up with them after all; they bussed together to school from elementary through high school and they all came back together after college. It's hard to leave home and in high school she used to think she wanted the big city life, but it turns out she didn't after college. On the way there, she passes a couple who looking in the midst of a bitter fight. She would pass by it normally, but both of them are clearly strangers. They're wearing neat clothes and look fashionable; she hasn't bothered to dress up in a while because it's only going to get covered in grass or dirt or whatever. There's no point anymore.

"We were supposed to turn left," the girl is hissing. "Oh my god Bellamy, is it so hard to ask for directions?"

"All I need is some wifi and we'll be fine," the man, Bellamy, growls back.

"'Give me some wifi and we'll be fine,'" the girl imitates mockingly, "is what you said when we were lost in Washington. Do I need to remind you what happened in Washington?"

Bellamy immediately looks aggrieved. "No. You don't."

"Uh," Clarke says, deciding that this might be the best moment to insert herself. "Do you two need help?"

The girl immediately turns to her with a bright smile and Clarke knows without a doubt they're from out of town, because she's pretty sure that tattoos crawling up your neck aren't a thing here. She likes the look, though, of roses with sharp thorns as a warning. "Yes, actually, some help would be wonderful! My brother here is terrible with directions-- we're looking for this address," she says and hands Clarke a piece of paper.

She looks at it and snorts. "You two're Blakes?" She asks flicking a glance at them; she can see the family resemblance now, the dark hair, eyes and freckles.

Bellamy bristles. "Yeah, problem?"

Clarke shrugs. "The only person who lives on this street is eighty year old gramma Augusta Blake, so it's not a hard leap. The street's a glorified goat track though, so I'm not surprised you got lost. You need a ride?"

The siblings glance at each other. "Only if it's not too much trouble for you," the girl says cautiously.

"No trouble at all; gramma Blake's a nice lady. I bet she'll be really happy to see her grandkids." They look sour at that; she knows that look. It's the look of those who were forced on a trip to see their dying grandmother and would rather not be in the country if they could help it. "My car's that way." They follow her and there's a brief, hushed conversation about who'll sit where as Clarke taps an absent beat on the wheel. In the end, Bellamy takes the front seat and Octavia sits in the middle of the back seat.

"So where're you two from?"

"Chicago," Bellamy replies.

Clarke can't help but snorting. Figures. Bellamy shoots her a look and she glances back at him innocently with a raised eyebrow, but soon returns her eyes to the road. "So you're in town to see gramma Blake?"

"Yeah," Octavia pipes up from the back. "We haven't seen her in years."

It's odd, now that Clarke thinks about it, that gramma Blake doesn't talk about her grandkids. Frowning as she turns onto the main road, she asks, "is your family... close?"

"What's it to you," Bellamy mutters to the window.

"It's just that I've never seen pictures of you in her place, nor does she ever talk about you."

The Blake siblings are quiet for a long time and Clarke lets them, turning the a/c up a little. It's a terribly hot day, after all, and sweat had been dripping down her back from the few minutes she had walked outside. "My mom and her had a huge argument when Octavia was born, and they never really reconciled," Bellamy says after a while. Clarke glances at him and finds him staring at her. Startled, she stares back. He looks a little like what she imagines young Augusta Blake to look like, with high cheekbones and curly hair and intense eyes.

"She's a wonderful lady," Clarke says when she finally forces her eyes to the road. The turn is coming up soon, and it's not safe to stare, besides being rude. "Sometimes I let her pay me in cookies."

"Does she-- does she bake well?" Clarke glances in the rearview mirror to see Octavia nonchalantly staring out the window, though the thumb biting and tense shoulders gives her away.

"Best in town," she promises as she sees the tall oak tree and turns. It's a near invisible trail, as the people visiting gramma Blake have dwindled over the years and she prefers to bike or walk around anyways. "One of the healthiest, despite her age," she comments as they reach the tall, sprawling Victorian. She remembers playing hide and seek in there, as her parents worked on the farm, with Wells and Monty and Jasper and so many more friends. Wells is only intermittently present, visiting his small hometown from his new city home infrequently, and Monty and Jasper are struggling to keep the electronics place open. She pulls into the driveway and almost immediately the door is opened and out steps gramma Blake.

"Gramma Blake," Clarke calls after cutting the engine and getting out. "You'll never guess what the cat dragged in," she says as she goes the porch to give her a hug. Gramma Blake is a little shorter than Clarke, with slightly stooped shoulders, but clear eyes and smooth movements.

"Two little birds?" She guesses, returning the hug tightly. "But I care more about my Clarke girl, you've been wrapped up in your farm and haven't got time lately for gramma Blake."

"Grandmother?" Bellamy says hesitantly as he gets out of the car. Octavia gets out slowly behind him and Clarke watches as gramma Blake's face blanches.

"It's your grandkids," she murmurs.

"Clarke, are they-- are they real?"

Clarke glance at Bellamy, who's now only a few steps away and looks like throwing up. Octavia is pale behind him. "Yeah, they're real," she says with a wink to the siblings. "Want me to punch them for you?"

"Don't you dare," gramma Blake admonishes with a wagging finger. "You do that and you won't be getting my oatmeal raisin cookies anymore."

She fake a disappointed sigh. "I'll leave you be then and, gramma Blake, promise to call me if you need something. I'm always here for you."

"Oh, Clarke," gramma Blake sighs, clinging to her. "Stay, have some coffee, I just finished a rhubarb pie and I know you love rhubarb."

It sounds wonderful, but Bellamy is staring at her intently once more and Octavia looks close to tears. "Another time."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke attends the farmer's market; she's not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so no total promises, but I remembered how much I loved this idea, and might return to it and drop some chapters now and then. I have a couple of ideas for future chapters, but I'll see how much I want to dedicate to this particular story.

Saturday’s the local, monthly Farmer’s Market, and Clarke shows up with zucchini bread, neatly shrink-wrapped. It’s held at the rec center, in the largest gym. There are plastic tables set up all around the place, with a couple folding chairs behind each. There’s a number of people already present, but Clarke recognizes them as sellers. Most of those selling goods are also those who end up buying the goods, so the group might not change a whole lot. At the end of the day, Clarke usually ends up selling all of her stuff. Sometimes, when short for time, she just brings in the raw produce, which doesn’t sell as well as the prepared food.

Surprise, surprise: Wells is there, guarding his dad’s county-fair-winning peach cobblers plus some apple pies.

“You just have to out-do us all, don’t you.” She puts the basket with her bread down next to the pies and gives him a once-over. He looks the same as always: a little cocky, a little stubble, in a blazer. In summer. Typical, really.

Wells gives her a cheeky grin. “That’s me.”

She rolls her eyes and starts unloading the goods and sets up the little sign: zucchini bread, $3 each. “I didn’t know you were in-town.”

“It was a surprise visit,” Wells says with a shrug. “Very last minute.”

Clarke nods and moves to the metal folding chair positioned behind the table. “My mom’s sick of the zucchini and begged me to get it out of the house,” she says, gesturing to the loaves. “So, here we are. She even made them. I didn’t know she knew we had a food processor.”

“How’s the farm?”

“Ugh,” Clarke moans, leaning back in her chair and throwing an arm over her eyes. “Don’t ask. It’s work, work, work, every day, is the ground wet enough, does it need to be fertilized, how’re the pesticides, germicides, I’m so tired, Wells.” He rubs her shoulder, but is otherwise silent. Her complaints are familiar to him, though usually expressed via email; they haven’t changed much in the past years. “I’m going to run away and become a circus performer.”

“Last time it was a train conductor. I’m not sure circus performing is any more stable.”

She moves her arm to swat him, frowning. “Shush, you. We can’t all have mayoral dads and cushy city jobs.”

Wells isn’t looking at her, but across the gym, when he says, “have you ever thought about selling?”

The idea is so shocking, so outlandish, that she immediately snorts. “No. How could I?”

He turns, pins her with a stare she can’t leave. “I’m serious, Clarke. It’s too much work for you and your mom, and you don’t even love it. Is this really what you want to do?”

“I’m not going to be like you,” she says, flinging the accusation between them, and she almost regrets it. There’s a micro-flinch, then her old best friend’s face hardens.

“I’m better off in Des Moines then here, rotting away. You should want more than a small town. You’re better than this, smarter.”

This is why she doesn’t call Wells anymore. This is why she keeps their interactions to email, and small talk when in person. He always confronts her with these statements, about how she should want more than a small town, how she’s better, too good to be kept in such a small space. “I love this town, Wells, even if you don’t. I belong here.”

“Clarke--”

“And I really don’t want to waste what little time we have together arguing about pointless shit, so can we move on? Have you heard the latest gossip?”

“Clarke, I don’t--”

“Gramma Blake’s grandkids showed up a couple weeks ago,” she says, bulldozing over him. “They’re from Chicago, and total city kids. Gramma Blake’s happy, though, so all’s well that ends well, I guess.”

“Is that them?” Wells nods towards the entrance of the gym, apparently dropping the previous issue. Clarke peers towards the entrance, and her eyebrows shoot up.

“With gramma Blake? Wow, no one else has a chance this month. I hope she brought some cookies.”

“What’re the names of the Blake kids?”

“Bellamy and Octavia. Jasper’s met Octavia and apparently already has a huge crush on her.”

Wells laughs. “What girl has he not had a crush on?”

“Oh, look, she’s seen you.” Gramma Blake points at Wells, a shocked but happy expression on her face and starts making her way towards them. Bellamy and Octavia, still in flashy clothes, follow her and the latter in heels. “How long’s it been?” Clarke asks, standing and closing the distance; Wells follows suit.

“A couple of years.”

“Gramma Blake!” Clarke cries when they’re in hearing distance and strides quicker and longer to reach her. “Didn’t know you’d be gracing us with your presence today. How’m I going to sell any of my zucchini bread with you here?”

“Oh, hush, honey, you always do fine. But look, if isn’t strapping, young Wells Jaha! Where have you been, dear?”

“Hi, gramma Blake.” He bends down to hug her, and she thumps his back with force. He chokes a little, but is still smiling widely when he stands. “I’ve been off, making a living in Des Moines. You know that.”

Clarke is smiling at them when Bellamy sidles up to her. “Clarke,” he says with a stiff nod.

“Did she insist on coming?” she whispers to him. “Is she okay here? I get that she’s healthy, but she doesn’t have a car, you don’t have a car, so how did you even get here?”

He immediately has an aggrieved expression. “There are some very nosy people in this town. Someone insisted on giving us a ride.”

The statement startles a laugh out of Clarke. He’s looked so sour every time she’s seen him passing, like at the supermarket, or just around town, that she had no clue he had a sense of humor. If that was a joke. He doesn’t look like he quite gets why she’s laughing, and she stops. “You do get that this is a small town? We might not actually know everyone, but everyone knows gramma Blake, and she loves boasting. All grandmas do.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says quietly, and, for a moment, Clarke shuts up.

“But now you do.” He raises an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes. “You’re here now, so make the most of it. I don’t know what your family situation is, but there’s no point in wallowing about the past when there’s a future, right? Just… Get to know gramma Blake? She’s wonderful. Let her fatten you up.” She pokes him in the side, and his frown deepens.

“I’m in great shape,” he begins hotly, but then Octavia interrupts him with a huge, irritated sigh.

“Bell, chill, okay? We get it, you’re shredded, but let’s just enjoy this farmer’s market, okay?”

“Gramma Blake,” Clarke says, stepping away from the Blake siblings. “Did you bring any of those cookies? Can I get ahead of the game and buy some?”

“You bet your cute butt I did.” Gramma Blake beckons for the grandkids and Octavia takes out a large tupperware from her purse. “I’ve got chocolate chip, oatmeal, and snickerdoodles. What would you like, honey?”

“Some snickerdoodles and oatmeal, definitely. Would you like to set up next to me? No one’s claimed the spot yet.”

“Is that okay?” At Clarke’s nod, gramma Blake beams. “Octavia, why don’t you go with Wells and sort this all out. Now, Clarke, give me your arm, and we’ll make our way over quick as we can.”

Clarke offers gramma Blake her arm, and she latches on. And, of course, Clarke starts to worry. Her dad was a worrier, her mom another expert, and Clarke has picked up the worry gene. “Gramma Blake, you sure you’re good here? You bring your medicine and everything?”

“Bellamy has it all, don’t you worry. He’s even promised to sell every single cookie and pie.” She tugs on her arm then, and Clarke bends close, presenting her ear. “He’s a good lad, Clarke, just like his grandda.”

“He’s related to you, so that was never in question.”

She pinches Clarke’s arm, but is still pleased with the flattery. “Why don’t you go fetch the pies?” Gramma Blake says to Bellamy and he nods and disappears a moment later. “A fine young man, when all is said and done. You’ll like him, trust me.”

“I like most people, gramma Blake, so that’s not really a concern of mine.”

“Ah,” gramma Blake says, eyes twinkling. “That’s not the sort of like I meant.”

“No,” Clarke says, stopping. “No match-making, okay? Gramma Blake, please don’t try and set me up with your grandson.”

“I never said I was! I just think that you’ll get along better than you think.” They continue walking and soon reach Wells and Octavia, who finished prettying up gramma Blake’s display. Clarke eyes the price, $1 for three, and frowns at the undercharge. “I’ll buy some right now,” she announces, pulls out her wallet, and hands Octavia a folded up five and clasps her hand, leaning close. “Keep the change,” she says low. “Gramma Blake ridiculously undercharges, and I’m sure the extra couldn’t hurt.”

Octavia frowns. “I couldn’t.”

“Trust me, Octavia, just take the money. Even with the extra, I still feel like I’m not paying enough.”

Reluctantly, Octavia takes the money, but then, defiance on her face, hands it right back. “I’ll take a loaf, please.”

Clarke stares at the money, then Octavia, incredulous. “Octavia, c’mon, just take it. Gramma Blake’s heat was cut off once in winter and the town pitched in, so take it. If you feel like you owe something, make sure everything sells.”

“A loaf, please,” Octavia insists. “To snack on while we’re here.”

Clarke purses her lips, then concedes. She’ll sneak the five into their money later, when no one’s watching. “Fine,” she says, swiping the five, and hands her one of the loaves. “My mom made them, so no full guarantee on the taste.”

Octavia is momentarily triumphant. Then gramma Blake calls her over, Bellamy arriving with the pies, and the market picks up. It’s not a busy farmer’s market, but Clarke sells all but two of her loaves, and all of gramma Blake’s goods are gone. She isn’t surprised in the least that all of the Jaha pies have disappeared. And she feels a burden lift when she manages to sneak the five into the Blake’s pile of money. Wells sells out quickly and mostly lounges around afterwards.

“I should’ve bought a cobbler at the beginning,” Clarke teases. “The Jaha pies are infamous,” she tells the Blake siblings, leaning towards them a little. Gramma Blake is off, likely catching up with some folk. “Mayor Jaha’s peach cobbler’s won awards.”

“With grandma’s pies, I’m not sure we need any Jaha pies,” Octavia responds. “You’re the one who said she’s the best in town.”

Clarke grins. “I did, didn’t I. Oh, d’you guys need a ride back to gramma Blake’s? There’ve been no names mentioned, but I’d bet twenty that it was Debs who offered the use of her old station wagon.”

“How’d you know?” Bellamy asks, a small line creasing his forehead. “I didn’t…”

“Nosiest lady in town, right Wells? I swear, she knew when you were leaving before I did.” Wells’s face tightens.

“Clarke.”

“Anyways, ride?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Octavia says. “Debs was nice, but all she wanted to talk about was our mom.”

Clarke winces in sympathy. “Why don’t you get your stuff together while I pull up?”

Wells falls into step beside her as she leaves. “Please, think about what I said.”

“No,” she says. “I won’t. It’s not an option, Wells.”

“Look, I get that it was your dad’s farm and all, but enough is enough Clarke. It’s unsustainable. I heard my dad on the phone with your mom-- you guys are in the red. Cut your losses and get out.”

“Oh my god, you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters, stopping, a hand going in the air. “Okay, let’s tease this out a moment. I sell the land-- then what? Where do mom and I go? Do we stay on as managers? If so, there’s no point in even selling. Do we move somewhere? Where, Wells? Where would we go? This is all I’ve known, this small town, a farming life. I have no other skills. So, sure, go on and tell me how I’m better than this, when you haven’t been around to actually give a shit.”

Wells’s eyes flicker behind them, and Clarke turns to see Bellamy standing there, eyes locked on her. Her eyebrows goes up. “Waiting with your sister and grandma so intolerable you decided to follow me?” Her tone is acidic. She turns and continues walking to her car. Wells doesn’t follow and moves to his own.

“No, I, uh--” His voice is faint, but she hears his steps on the cement as he goes after her. “It was getting stifling, being in there.”

“You’re used to different folk, right? Chicago’s a big place after all.”

“Everyone asks about my mom, not just Debs,” he says quietly. “They keep on telling me stories, about her as prom queen, how she tutored math… It’s stifling.”

“You get used to it, after a time. They’ll keep telling you stories about how she was sweet, how everyone loved her, and soon they become moments you look forward to.” They reach the SUV, her keys already in hand and she unlocks the car. “For now, just remember that they mean well.”

He’s quiet and gets into the front seat, again. She starts the engine.

“I know you mean well,” he says when she’s backing up. “But they don’t know her. She left this town, seventeen and pregnant, and never looked back. They don’t know her.”

“They mean well.” She hates that she just repeated herself, scarce moments between the phrases. He rolls his eyes. “Bellamy, I’m serious. You lost your mom however recently, and they’re trying to help the only way they know how to. Everyone’s got a little tragedy in their lives. Don’t think you’re the only one in this town who’s lost, or is losing, someone.”

She pulls in front of the rec center, and their eyes meet as she puts the car in park. His eyes are dark, skin tan, and there are already more freckles spread across his nose, over his cheekbones, than when he first arrived. She’s not sure how she knows that. A college boyfriend had freckles; she remembers an early February morning, lying in her single bed, naked, searching for all the places the freckles went.

The moment is too heavy. It’s oppressive, curiosity woken, so she looks away and gets out of the car. Octavia and gramma Blake give her smiles; she returns them and helps put their stuff into the back, then helps gramma Blake into the back.

The ride back to the old Victorian is quiet, with gramma Blake chatting about everyone she saw, Octavia and Clarke occasionally chiming in. She turns at the oak, parks, helps gramma Blake back out, and leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

Anger simmers underneath her skin as Clarke pushes the bar door open. It’s not the more popular sports bar down the street, over-spilling with raucous noise over a football game, though it would be a lie to say this bar is quiet. There are people at the bar, Miller chatting with some of the locals while pouring beers, and Roma’s stopped by one of the tables to chat, apron loosely tied behind her.

Miller catches sight of her and cries out, “the lost Griffin!” Others, some of them she vaguely remembers from high school, turn and cheer for her, raising beer mugs. She grins, a familiar tug of camaraderie tugging at her chest.

“Not so lost anymore," she says, taking an empty stool near someone she thinks might be Leah.

“Good to see you,” the young woman says, and oh, Clarke remembers her clearly now. Not Leah, but Leslie. She was a cheerleader of middling talent and good with dates. They had Western Civ together, she thinks, and then later they took English Lit together as seniors. Clarke remembers the latter more clearly. “How’s your mom?”

Reminded, Clarke’s smile turns brittle. “She’s fine. Hey, Miller, where’s my beer?”

Miller rolls his eyes, but soon there’s a mug in her hands and she chugs it. She shouldn’t drink too much tonight, as she still needs to get home tonight, but the moment of release feels good. She was last here with Monty, her friend trying to flirt unsuccessfully with Miller. She wishes, for a moment, that a more familiar face would appear, but seems like it’ll just be her and Leslie tonight.

“Another, please,” she calls to Miller, tapping on the bar. Miller shoots her a look, because he knows, he always seems to know, when there’s something wrong, but pours her a second.

“Rough day?” Leslie asks, eyeing the second mug Clarke takes a long sip from.

“Every day’s a long day. I’m not sure what you’re up to nowadays— you went to nursing school, right?”

Leslie shrugs. “I did, but dropped out when my dad had a stroke.” Clarke winces. “It’s been hard, yeah, but what can you do? I picked up a job at CVS to help cover medical costs.” The CVS opened four years ago and, while useful, no one particularly likes it. Jasper once complained about it taking away business, but Clarke is just grateful there’s no Wal-Mart yet.

“How’s your dad been since?”

“Rehab’s been a struggle, but he’s getting there.”

“I’m sure some of your time studying nursing helps.”

There’s a pause, a brief moment, where they both think of Abby Griffin. There had been articles about her, when doctors first discovered Jake Griffin’s cancer, and her tireless dedication. Abby had gone to nursing school, and it kicked in when her husband was sick. The article had painted an angelic picture of her.

“Enough about me— how’s the farm? It’s rare to see you here.”

Another topic she doesn’t really want to talk about. She tenses and Leslie notices. “The weather’s been shit, but it goes,” Clarke says, trying to cover it up. The weather’s an issue, it always is, dry and hot this year, but the real problem looms abstractly over her. Abby was talking with the Jaha’s, and apparently Thelonius is in agreement with Wells about the Griffin farms. When Abby tried to broach the subject with Clarke, things had blown up.

Clarke is about to apologize, say that she’s not actually in the mood for talking, when the bell tinkles. She looks over reflexively and her eyebrow shoot up. Octavia is leading Bellamy in, her face determined and his a little horrified.

“Oh my god,” Leslie hisses to her, “the Blake kids. Have you met them? My mom’s dying to know what they’re like from first-hand accounts.”

“They’re nice,” Clarke says, defensive, then not sure _why_ she’s defensive. “I’ve met them a couple times.”

Octavia spots her, face brightening, and drags Bellamy over. Leslie sucks breath in through her teeth, and Clarke smiles easily and nearly laughs when Bellamy’s face moves from horrified to more charming, a smile curling his lips. She’s pretty sure the smile is for Leslie, because after giving her a nod, he gives her a full smile.

“Octavia, Bellamy, this is Leslie. Leslie, the Blake siblings. Now you’ll definitely have something to tell your mom.”

Leslie playfully smacks her arm, and Clarke takes a sip of her beer as her old friend starts flirting with Bellamy. Feeling magnanimous, she even moves a stool over, for Bellamy. Octavia takes the seat next to her.

“Don’t encourage him,” she whispers. “He flirts with near about everyone.”

“He’s not flirted with me,” Clarke protests, raising a hand for Miller. “Have you met Miller?”

“We’ve been here a few times already,” Octavia says. “He and Bellamy really hit it off.”

Miller comes over and grins at the Blakes. “The Chicagoans return,” he crows. “Beer for the lady, rum and whiskey for the gentleman?” The siblings nod, and Miller turns around.

“Is this where you met Jasper?” Clarke asks.

Octavia nods. “Yeah, it was a few nights after we first got here. How’d you know?”

“Small-town,” Clarke says, reminding her with a sardonic smile. “He also hasn’t shut up about you. He texts me every so often about you.”

Octavia shakes her head. “Wow, it’s hard to get just how small this town is. I’m used to… something bigger.”

“It can be a hard adjustment for some,” Clarke says, and tilts her head towards Bellamy, who’s focused on Leslie. “But others, it’s fine. I went to school in Madison, so I get it, in a way.”

“I’m doing fine,” Bellamy says, half-turning towards her, scowling. Leslie looks amused, though also frustrated.

“Uh, sure,” Clarke offers. “You’re doing _great_.” Then she turns so her back is to Bellamy, towards Octavia. “How long have you guys been here so far?”

Octavia’s lips twist and she takes a sip. “Almost a month, I think. Bellamy does want to go back, but… We left under extenuating circumstances. It’s not easy to just go back, either. Without a car, and grandma doesn’t have a computer or internet…”

Clarke wants to press, of course she does, she’s just as nosy as her neighbors, but she refrains. Leslie didn’t press her tonight, about the farm or her mom, so she’ll extend the kindness. “First thing you need is a bike, probably. Gramma Blake lives close enough to town that you don’t really need a car. I used to bike to school.”

“We…” Octavia looks intensely uncomfortable, and Clarke backtracks in her mind, wondering where she went wrong. Maybe Octavia’s disabled in some way, or Bellamy is, and she never noticed? In which case, the bike’s a bad idea, but she… She was well-intentioned, but maybe rude? “Don’t have the money,” Octavia finishes in a whisper. “That’s another problem.”

“Oh,” Clarke says and blinks. “I didn’t mean you should, like, go out and _buy_ one, but borrow one? I once borrowed one of the Jaha’s bikes for a year, and sometimes I let them use my tractor. I just meant that people are willing to be friendly, especially to a Blake kid. I have an extra bike, old and a little broken, but I could definitely lend it to you.”

The offer confuses Octavia; her expression makes that clear.

“It’s no big deal, really, just consider it a welcoming gift to the area, maybe?”

“I…”

“We’ll be fine,” Bellamy says, dozing in, and Clarke turns to him with irritation. Leslie is gone, she notices, surprised. When did she leave? “Thanks for the _charity_ , but we’ll work it out.”

Clarke blinks, glances towards Octavia, and drains the last of her mug; catching Miller’s eye, she taps the bar for her third. This is too much, just— “It’s not charity,” she says, her words overloud, and quickly quiets. “It’s being kind, Jesus Christ, has no one ever done you a kindness before?”

Bellamy flinches. “It’s a dog eat dog world, Clarke. It must be nice to live in your naive little world.”

She snorts. “You think I’m _naive_? Naive. Wow. I’m— I might not be from Chicago, you _city_ kid, but I know there are kind people in Chicago just like there are kind folk here. Don’t— don’t, okay?”

Miller places the third beer in front of her; he eyes each Blake siblings with anger. “You okay, Griffin?”

“Better with this,” she says, holding the mug up, and then starts drinking, drinking, and drinking, until there’s just some froth sliding down the glass, some stuck to her face. She wipes it off and feels the previous two burning. She takes out her wallet and hands her credit card to Miller. “I’m covering the Blake tabs.”

There’s an immediate splutter from Bellamy, who tries to snatch the card from her hand. “No, I’m covering yours!”

Miller takes her card. “I like you, Bell, but I grew up with good, old Griff here.” Clarke purses her name at the old nickname. She can take ‘the lost Griffin’ because it sounds cool, poetic even, but Griff is silly. “And you always side with a Griffin.”

“My mom once beat him at arm-wrestling,” Clarke comments idly to Octavia as Miller adds up the total of the three’s drinks. “He’s never quite gotten over it.”

Then Miller hands her card back with the receipt, she scribbles a tip and her signature, and she’s walking out the door. Bellamy didn’t say anything more, but watched her, eyes burning and she could feel it singing her skin. He ends up following her out, and she tenses, shoulders hunching. She’s not sober enough to drive, and so she walks down the sidewalk, past the still-loud sports bar, and into the nearby park.

“What do you want?” she asks, sitting on a bench. The alcohol is swirling in her veins, tangible, and it was probably a bad idea to finish that third drink so quickly. She wasn't even at the bar for an _hour_.

“You’re drunk.” He stops in front of her, arms crossed, disapproval clear.

She snorts. “No,” she drawls, “really? Am I? Oh, master, please, tell me what I should do. I am _adrift_ without your guidance.”

It’s dark, and she can only vaguely see his outline, but Clarke knows he rolls his eyes. “Let me give you a ride home.”

Then— she remembers why she came out, and going home is her last priority. She’d rather wait however long it takes to sober up than take him on his offer. Clarke is still so _angry_ , it boils inside her, all the more intense with the addition of alcohol. “I don’t need your charity,” she snips, with more anger than intended. “Just go back to the bar, finish your drink and finish chatting up Leslie.” Bellamy sighs; she notices he’s aggravated, but she doesn’t care, because she’s also aggravated. What a pair they make. Sometimes, Clarke fought with her dad like this, anger building up and exploding in short phrases that devastate.

The memory of her dad, and some of the last fights they had, fill her up. They exhausted her, just like this fight exhausts her. What is the point? Where are her reasons, for dragging this out, for biting at Bellamy who is just trying to help?

“I don’t want to go home,” she says, quietly. The words take flight between them. “You heard my conversation with Wells. My mom’s in the same boat.”

“So you decided to drink your problems away?”

“No,” she says, frustrated, and lets it show. “I decided to go out and have a good fucking time. I don’t often get the chance.”

“C’mon, Clarke, just let me give you a ride home.”

“Then how’re you gonna get home? Huh? You don’t even know where I live. It’s— it’s impractical.”

“Fuck, Clarke, just— let me do something nice for you. You—”

“I don’t need you to do something nice for me! God, Bellamy, just let it all go! I don’t need any sort of—”

“Then just come to mine!”

Clarke stops and considers, because, for a moment, it’s a good, sound idea. Then it turns ridiculous and she snorts. “No, yeah. Not happening.”

“It’s Grandma’s place anyways, and I’m sure you know she has plenty of spares. Just text your mom that you’ll be out for the night. Two birds with one stone.”

“Three. Isn’t it?” Bellamy cocks an eyebrow in question. “I avoid home and you make sure I get someplace safely. And,” here, she smirks, slow, postures and leans forward, enough that he could look down her shirt if he really wants to, “you get to take a pretty girl home.”

“Fuck,” he mutters and licks his lips. But he doesn’t let his gaze slip down, and eventually he rolls his shoulders, drops his arms. “Let’s go, Clarke, let’s get you home.” He grabs her arm and she lets him pull her up, laughing, and leans into him, the world spinning a little.

She can’t tell if she’s read him right, but it sure feels like it. He left Leslie, a different pretty girl who probably has less strings attached than Clarke, and came after _her_. It— she’s sure she’s reading him right, she’s got to be. “You’re warm,” she murmurs, cozying up to him, and he gives in enough to put an arm around her shoulder. She sighs. The anger is close, still bubbling, still hot, but this is a welcome reprieve. She doesn’t get many such chances.

They find her car, Clarke still hanging onto him because it’s such fun, that he can be kind of shitty—like with the whole bike thing— but he’s into taking care of people. She can tell. He makes sure she's buckled in before he bothers with his own seatbelt. He’s a cautious driver, full-stops at every stop sign. He brakes gently, and gives her unnecessary help out of the car and into gramma Blake’s.

Clarke continues leaning towards him, because he _is_ warm, but not just the heat of his skin through clothes is pleasant, but for that care he shows. He texts Octavia, a little line on his forehead, and as he ushers her into the house, miming for quiet, Clarke gives in and hugs him.

Clarke doesn’t hug people much. She can be a tactile person, squeezing shoulders, linking arms, and clinging to people like she was earlier, but hugs are on the other side of the line. Hugs are intimate; hugs are a full-body experience; hugs require trust. He returns the hug, arms circling around her, hesitant and slow, but when she stays in his arms, more sure and one hand rubs along her back, the other semi-clenched over her shoulder blade.

“Take the bike, okay?” she whispers. “Please. Take it.”

Bellamy nods against her head, his curls momentarily tickling her forehead, and she quickly disengages. She can’t take it any longer. Last time she hugged someone with such intent, so full, was years ago, possibly her dad’s funeral. She feels fragile, like to break, and rubs a hand over her face as Bellamy steps away, though a hand lingers on her shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine— there’s a spare just down there, right?” She hooks a thumb down the hallway, subtly getting away from his hand. She’s not sober enough to handle the emotional outpour appropriately, but she regrets the way his face shutters as he recognizes her movements and nods.

“See you in the morning.”

“Night.”

 

 

Clarke wakes up early, habitual, and gramma Blake is the only one up and puttering around. “Morning,” she says, grabbing her keys when she spies them.

Gramma Blake eyes her, then an eyebrow goes up. “You two never needed any interference.”

“Gramma Blake,” she says, head ducking, tucking tangled hair behind an ear. “Nothing happened, and nothing’s gonna happen. I’ve got too much— I’ll see you later, okay?” She approaches gramma Blake and presses a kiss to the older lady’s cheek. “Tell the kids morning for me.”

The driver’s seat in her old SUV is too far back, the seat too far forward for comfort, the rearview mirror wonky. She swallows the regret from last night, not sure what she lost but knowing that something was lost, and fixes the seat and the mirror before leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi y'all there is a plot, but it won't be foregrounded in this story. it's a minor thing lmao.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes Clarke a few days to get the bike to the Blake’s, and she almost escapes unscathed. The bike is out of the SUV’s trunk and parked in front of gramma Blake’s porch, but then gramma Blake comes out, insistent she has some freshly baked brownies, and Clarke is weak to gramma Blake.

“We were wild things, back then,” Clarke says around a brownie, sitting at gramma Blake’s kitchen table. It’s covered with the floral, plastic cloth she remembers from childhood visits. The counters are meticulously clean. The backdoor is open, though the screen door remains closed; though summer is over, there kitchen still smells of hot weather and grass. “Weren’t we?”

Gramma Blake sighs. “You have no idea. Parents acted like I was running a daycare except daycares get _paid_.”

Clarke smiles. “I miss those days.”

“Adults always miss their childhood. I miss mine, and my parents had me working every day after school since I was twelve.”

Clarke’s smile softens, turns a little wistful. “You used to tell stories about what it was like in the fifties and so on, about our parents too. I ate that up.”

Gramma Blake takes a brownie and puts it in front of Clarke. “Your dad is still one of the best people I ever knew.”

“Same, though it doesn’t have the same effect as you saying it.”

“You need some milk.”

She should protest, politely excuse herself, but nostalgia overwhelms her, and she continues eating her dense brownie. It’s not the same when she was a kid. There are nuts now, some butterscotch chips. “I remember telling you about Finn,” she says, pulling a leg up, resting her chin on her knee. You know, I never forgot the advice you gave me. ‘If a person doesn’t wash their hands after pissing, don’t think about it.’ How did you even know?”

“Honey, you kids were traipsing about, and I knew which of you washed their hands after the bathroom. He was never one of those.”

Clarke snorts and take the glass of milk gramma Blake offers her. “Thanks. It’s been… a long time, hasn't it. I don’t even know where Finn is now.”

“Nebraska, I believe. Omaha.”

She shakes her head and sips the milk. “He used to dream about being president.”

“You used to dream about being First Lady.”

Clarke laughs, realizes a sip is not enough, and gulps half the glass. The two lapse into silence, and it’s comfortable. Clarke’s eyes glaze over, nibbling her brownie, as she remembers running through this house as a kid. Gramma Blake was always kind, always welcoming, and excellent with kids. Clarke hadn’t even know Aurora Blake existed until the Blake siblings walked into town and set everyone gossiping. The house feels empty, suddenly, oddly; when a kid, the house was full all the time, kids walking here from the nearby elementary school, and later a few of them trooping all the way over from the middle school, then biking from high school. When did the kids stop coming? Her grade wasn’t the only one appearing in the Blake yard.

She sighs and stiffens when she hears voices filter into the kitchen. Then there’s the door swinging open, the screen door slamming shut behind them, and Clarke gives gramma Blake an accusing stare; the look she gets in response is flat. “You lured me here with memories and chocolate. You’re the worst.”

“It was your own decision,” gramma Blake says and calmly serves herself another brownie.

“Grandma, why is Clarke’s car here?” Bellamy calls from the foyer, accompanied by rustling and the sound of shoes being kicked off.

“There’s also a bike. Is it the promised one?” Octavia follows, and soon enters the kitchen, bags hanging from her arm. She blinks and sets the bags down.

“It is,” Clarke says, fidgeting in the seat and puts her leg down, sitting a little straighter. “I tinkered a bit, and it should be good to go. Well,” she adds, tilting her head a little, eyes going to the door when Bellamy appears. “I asked Monty for some help. He mostly did the fixing. I can fix minor problems with tractors, but bikes are beyond me.” She smiles and is gratified when Bellamy returns it, Octavia as well.

“This’ll make life easier,” she pronounces. “I’ve got an interview at the library, and this’ll be great to have.”

“The… library?”

“Yeah, Jasper mentioned something about always looking for someone, and I figured I should go and give it a shot.”

“I see. Jackson’ll probably hire you. He tried to rope me into working for him when I was a teen, and I don’t think he’s found anyone willing since. He’s a little overworked.”

“Do you actually know everyone in this town?” Octavia asks, a little exasperated, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. Bellamy sighs, scoops up the bags she dropped, and places them on the counter. She eyes him as he starts putting things away: a gallon of milk, some eggs, cheese, Nutella, sandwich bread.

“It’s a small town, Octavia.”

“You know more people than Jasper, though, and Miller.”

Clarke swallows and looks away when Bellamy glances over his shoulder at her. “My, uh, parents are—were— _are_ well-known. It’s more like people know me and I just, sort of, learn their names.”

“Are, were?”

“My dad died several years ago. It was a community thing.”

Both Blake siblings frown at her. The sight’s a little unnerving. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Octavia says; Bellamy echoes the phrase a beat later. Clarke waves her hand.

“It’s old news. When he finally died, it took two weeks for several missing chickens and a broken fence to replace him as top-ranking news.” They’re both still staring at her, Bellamy keeping the fridge open. Clarke clears her throat. “Are you looking for a job, Bellamy?”

“Ah,” he says and lets go of the fridge door. It swings shut. “I guess. I’m— my credentials aren’t exactly suited for rural living.”

“And what credentials would that be?”

“Ancient Greek and curating.” His smile is a little sad. “Unfortunately, there aren’t any nearby museums.”

 _Why are you still here?_ The question burns the tip of Clarke’s tongue, but a glance at gramma Blake quells it. Not her business, and gramma Blake looks content, a little serene, peaceful in her sunny kitchen with her grandkids and near-adopted grandkid with her. Clarke doesn’t want to break that peace.

“There’re always odd jobs to do around here. Harvest starts soon, and didn’t you say you worked out? Help’s always appreciated.”

Gramma Blake’s eyebrows draw together, her mouth twisting in thought. Clarke does not like the look; it spells trouble. “He could help you.”

Clarke wants to reject the idea right off, because she never said _she_ needed help— but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t. She always needs help. Machines are good, all in all, they help get the work done, but all she’ll do for near a straight month is harvest. Get up, get the combine, out in the fields, break for lunch and water, out in the field, hit her bed. It’s hard work, all the more so for being alone. Her mom helps, some, but— Clarke doesn’t like thinking about her mom and the farm together, bitterness swelling, aware that Abby avoids the physical labor involved with running a farm. She gives Clarke massages occasionally during harvest, tends to scratches she gets, but Abby is beneficial on the fiscal side, on the seed side, on getting pesticides at good rates. Not the planting, watering, harvesting, and so on. Her dad helped— the memory is warm and slightly faded. Camaraderie on a tractor, working with the combine. It’s been a long time since she had real help.

“I can’t pay you much,” she says slowly. “But— any and all help _is_ appreciated. It’s hard work, though, and you’ll have to learn quick.”

She doesn’t know what’s going through his mind as he stares at her. There are minute changes, something with his jaw, an angle change, but nothing she can decipher. He’s probably thinking of her mom, of that conversation with Wells, and shame turns her head away, gaze towards gramma Blake’s backyard. An old stump sits in the middle, felled before she was born, and she tripped and skinned her knee on it when nine. Gramma Blake bandaged her up here, in this very kitchen, the same plastic tablecloth, the same egg yellow walls, the fridge’s hum the same. Clarke hopes he says yes. She shouldn’t; they’ve both got shit going on, though she doesn’t know what his shit is. An entanglement of any sort isn’t good for her; unluckily, Bellamy’s a jigsaw she’s already been roped into solving. She wants to know him, his freckles, why he’s so protective, what actually happened in Washington that first day they met, hot and sunny.

He shrugs, nonchalant, and her head whips back to look at him. “Why not? A Blake never shies from hard work.”

A smile cracks her face, unbidden and certainly unintentionally so large. “We’ll see if you're still so cocky once harvesting's over.”

He smiles back, and Clarke realizes that she’s going to have to tell Abby this. But, sitting in the Blake kitchen, with Octavia launching in a story that makes Bellamy groan, she’s not sure she care. She’s been alone for long enough. Abby doesn’t get to decide whether or not that changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update w/in 24 hours!!! please don't expect updates so quickly in the future


	5. Chapter 5

They work out a deal. Clarke will pick Bellamy up, because he doesn’t have a car, and feed him while working. He also does get an income, of a sorts, but it’s not much. She feels bad about how little she can offer, but there’s a pause during the phone conversation that reminds her that he _knows_. She still feels bad about it, but since he knows about the farm’s financial difficulty the nagging guilt doesn’t sit as heavy.

The drive back to her farm is quiet, Bellamy’s arms crossed and head tilted towards the window. A glance over reveals that his eyes are closed, and then a second glance over reveals the steady, gentle rhythm of sleep. A cat nap, then. She grins as she drives the country roads, corn fields whizzing by them, and is careful when she turns into the long driveway of her home.

“We’re here,” she says, reaching over to gently shake his shoulder. “Bellamy?”

“Shit,” he says, jerking awake suddenly, eyes flying open, hands flying to his seatbelt. “What?”

“We’re here. Let’s get started.” She unbuckles herself and opens her door, stepping outside.

“Do you wake up this early every day?” he asks, after blinking a few moments. He follows suits and unbuckles, then follows her into the barn where the combine is.

“Yeah,” she replies and, as they round the corner, the combine comes into view. “This is the machine we’ll be using. Do you know what it is?” He eyes it with suspicion and she rolls her eyes. “It’s a combine and it’s going to be doing all the harvesting. If you don’t like it, please, go out there and pick it all by hand.”

“How do you use it?”

“You’re not using it today,” she says, “you’ll be riding along with me, getting a feel for it.” He purses his lips and looks, for a moment, like he’d love to argue, but doesn’t. She gets into the combine, and gestures for him to join her.

And so, the first day starts.

 

 

 

He’s quiet most of the time. Clarke’s fine with that, focusing on the combine, lining things up, half-smiling when a deer darts out of the corn lines, scared by the noise. The first time she leaves him alone on the combine, driving the full truck of shucked corn to an elevator, there’s a momentary panic in his eyes. But he nods, swings back into the combine, and nothing’s on fire or messed up when she returns.

After one week, a little less than half of all the corn has been harvested. Clarke’s just getting into her SUV when she glances towards her vegetable patch and winces. Some of the vines are getting out of control, and she can see too-large beans from the large distance. So, after picking Bellamy up, she tells him of the change in plans.

“We’ve got a lot done this past week,” she tells him, glancing over at him occasionally. “So today we’re going to spend the morning working at the vegetable garden. You cool with that?”

He shrugs. “You think it’ll only take the morning?”

“With two people, yeah. It’s a decent sized one, but I’ve been able to maintain it by myself all summer. We can have some fresh veggies for lunch.” They’ve already been having fresh vegetables for lunch, but Bellamy doesn’t say so, just yawns and slouches more in the front seat.

They get back home, and Bellamy follows her as she enters the house. She can hear water running, her mom taking a shower; she realizes, a faint humming reaching them over the water, that Bellamy’s still not met her mom, and somehow the thought is embarrassing. They’ll be out of the house before her mom comes downstairs, thankfully, and Clarke can pass the vegetables off to her mom without Bellamy needing to meet her.

The baskets she uses to harvest everything are stacked by the kitchen porch door, and that’s where she leads him. The early morning sunlight is filtering into the kitchen, heating the room, light catching on the wooden paneling. She takes some baskets off the top and gestures with her chin to the rest of them. “We might not need them,” she says as she fumbles with the handle, hidden by the baskets in her arms, and pushes the screen door open with her hip. “But better to have more than make a trip back."

He picks more off the pile and follows her to the vegetable plot. He whistles when they get there. “What a mess.”

“I know, Bellamy,” she says, fake patient and fake sweet. “That’s why we’re fixing it up. You just pick the vegetables, and I’ll do the hard work.”

He rolls his eyes, but gets to work. She follows suit. Clarke doubles back to grab gardening tools, for weeds and the like. She’s soon sweating, and it’s irritating that Bellamy’s hardly broken a sweat while picking beans off the trellis, which had bounced back from wildlife ravaging it. “Be careful of the zucchini vines,” she warns, wiping her forehead. “They’re prickly. Grab the flowers too, they’re edible.”

Bellamy seems cautiously fascinated by the plot. He examines the tomatoes with rigor and is delighted by the cucumbers. Clarke, bemused by this fascination, weeds, edges, and straightens the beans and all other vines. When Bellamy gets to the broccoli, she hands him her garden scissors. “You’ll need these.”

There’s dirt up her arms, and probably on her face too. She should have worn her gloves, but didn’t want to go digging through the bin for them. “While you get the broccoli, I’ll take the rest in.”

Bellamy nods, and she hefts the basket of zucchini. A good deal of them are too large to eat, so there will be more zucchini bread. As for the peppers and cucumbers, they can go in a salad with the broccoli. She’ll see if there’s any lettuce to scrounge for a salad, and she can get some canned tuna and make decent salads. The beans can be grilled with some onions from last year. They’re nearly gone, but there’s a few left in the cellar.

Her mom’s humming to herself in the office when Clarke enters the kitchen. She didn’t want them to meet, hadn’t even told her mom that Bellamy was helping out.

“Oh, Clarke,” she says, pulling her reading glasses further down her nose. “I’ve got some things I want you to look over.”

“Mom, you’re the numbers one of this operation. Please don’t make me look at numbers.”

She smiles, but it's a fake one. This is an old conversation. “There’s a recent withdrawal from the account I’m concerned about. Someone withdrew a few hundred dollars. Know anything about it?”

Clarke drops the baskets on the table and goes to the sink. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she says, turning the water and sticking her arms under the flow. “I’ve, uh, hired someone to help on the farm.” She pumps some soap and starts lathering up.

Her mom is silent, and Bellamy walks through the door. “I’ve got the broccoli,” he says, using a hand to slam the door shut. The screen door bangs home a moment later. The loud noises make Clarke flinch in the otherwise silent room.

“Oh, hello,” Bellamy says, and Clarke turns her head a little to see Bellamy put the last basket down to stick a hand out. Her arms are almost completely rinsed. “You must be Mrs Griffin. My name’s Bellamy Blake, and I’m—”

“You’re one of Aurora’s kids,” Abby says in disbelief. “You’re her eldest, right? You— Clarke, when were you—”

She turns the water off and grabs a towel hanging from the oven. “I dunno. When were you going to tell me you talked to realtors about selling?” Her arms are dry, if damp, and Clarke looks up to meet Abby’s eyes. Abby stiffens. “See, mom, I’m not the only one with secrets here.” Clarke smiles, but it’s not a nice smile.

“I’m going back outside,” Bellamy says, backing away slowly.

“No need,” Clarke tells Bellamy. “We don’t discuss private business in front of everyone, if at all. Isn’t that right, mom?”

Abby takes her reading glasses off to put them on her head. “Apparently. And apparently I’ll be seeing you around Bellamy. Thanks for helping out.”

“Uh, I should be thanking you for giving me a job, so…”

Abby shrugs and walks away, back to her office.

“That was fun,” Bellamy says, sarcastic as usual, when the office door closes gently on the world.

“That was my mom, Abby Griffin. She went to high school with your mom. They were good friends, actually.”

Bellamy looks at her. Clarke never knows how to read the looks he gives her. There’s something meaningful in his eyes, almost aways. They’re dark, serious, steady, and they make her want to be better than who she is.

“I found my mom’s yearbook. They were both on the cheer team.”

“That’s… interesting.”

Clarke snorts. “Sure. We’re having salad for lunch. Do you want ranch or blue cheese dressing today?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm gonna finish this one day!!! i swear!!!


End file.
